


I Will Not Bend

by hellamybellamy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Horror, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Post - A Game of Thrones, Slow Burn, it's game of thrones bruh, lots of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24384091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellamybellamy/pseuds/hellamybellamy
Summary: "Even when evil prevails and all that's left in the world is darkness, I will not bend."Held captive in her childhood home for a political game, Cerise's days feel numbered. But the fates don't just have death in store for the daughter of a legendary warrior, and she'll soon find she has a place in the game of thrones that's more than a corpse.AU/Season 2 onwardsRobb Stark/OC
Relationships: Robb Stark/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	I Will Not Bend

| CHAPTER I: THE WEEPING ORPHAN |

CERISE

**CERISE WAS NOT A STARK** , but in the cold, empty Hell that was her newly acquainted prison, shaking and shivering in a ball of dirtied limbs, all she knew was winter.

She was not a fool. She knew that there were worse places to be, worse Hells that could bear arms against her. She could have been beaten bloody before she was tossed in here, or have watched killer after killer venture through the bars to take her against the cell wall, or worse—she could have been kept by the side of her captor through the agonizing moons of torture for him to flaunt and make a mockery of. _There are worse fates than wasting away in a cell,_ Cerise told herself, enough times that the words could have been carved permanently into her membrane. Her fate was not a happy one now, but the fates of her family and her people were avoided for her—a blessing she didn’t know she could really thank the Seven Gods for. She had begged for death a fortnight after she was tossed in her cell to rot and none had obliged her.

They put the faces, the bodies, the memories of her loved ones in here with her. Their figures were on the other side, but the cell was a small Hell; she smelt and saw them with every breath, every flickering of the cell-barred skylight. There were too many of them to ignore. Cerise choked on a sob every mistake it took for her to open her eyes and see them, see the maggots as they festered in their wounds and watch their blank, shock-frozen gazes stare into oblivion, stuck in an endless doomsday. They relived that day every moment of their afterlives, haunted by the betrayal that shortly happened before their demises. Cerise wept and screamed and begged for death the longer they decomposed and the more maggots that came to feast upon their vulnerable corpses. Some of it was in her head, but other instances came on the outside, a show for the guards to watch disparagingly.

The guards that stayed stationary outside her cell never cared. They listened, they responded, but her cries of anguish were all a form of amusement in the aftermath of her imprisonment. They laughed. That’s all they did. _Monsters,_ that’s what they were; Cerise knew it, her dead family felt it, and she was sure even the monsters themselves recognized what they were. Or perhaps they did not. Cerise, more than anyone, knew that villains often thought themselves the heroes. This, however, couldn’t be anything more than it was. _Slaughter._

After Cerise’s only meal of the day, consisting of slush-like leftovers from her family’s old mead hall, she suspected she would need to close her eyes and lie on the dirty, hay-infested ground until she was able to slumber. That was how her nights were spent: sleeping on the ground, awakening from nightmares of the day she lost everything, crying until she fell back into oblivion again, and repeating the cycle over and over until daybreak. It was a cycle that had happened for over two moon phases. Cerise’s stomach had settled from the horrible porridge nothing like her family’s kitchen staff used to make, and she could feel the contents there grumble, wanting more. She curled into a fetal position, wrapping her arms around her legs to give them warmth. She kept her eyes clenched shut and breathed from her mouth. Smelling her family would trigger new flashes of unwanted memories.

A noise distracted her.

The door up the stairs from the line of cells had come open and slammed shut in a subsequent fashion.

Cerise’s numbing ears listened to the clang of chain-metal and loud boots hitting the ground outside her cell. From one guard to another came whispers she could not hear, whispers that sounded important. She heard someone hit the bars, loudly, loud enough she cracked open an eyelid. All she saw was darkness before turning over, then she looked and she saw the outline of a man on the other side of her cell. “Get up, girl,” the outline said, but nothing moved in his figure to indicate he had spoken.

Cerise sat up, her shredded dress falling limply across her lap. She hadn’t changed in so long, left to fade away in the very attire she wore during her home’s coup. By now it was nothing more than loose fabric and seam-tore thread, hues of white and gray that turned brown from muck.

“Why?” Cerise croaked. She was given water the same time she was given porridge, and neither were very sustaining. She knew she was malnourished and dehydrated, perhaps skinnier than she’d ever been in the years she was alive, but appearance was all a superficial worry she couldn’t prioritize; what truly mattered was how _weak_ it had made her. She knew if it came down to it, she couldn’t stage an escape. She was all skin and bones, useless as she was broken. It was a pitiful delusion to imagine herself safe and away from the bloodshed—a pitiful delusion she foolishly savored. As the guards, all but the one in front of her cell, left, she couldn’t help but hope he was like the rogue in storybooks—coming to release her through the guise of a usurper-loyal guard.

Her hopes were dashed when the guard banged against the bar harder, his voice louder; “Do as I say, cunt!” he barked.

Cerise wobbled and stumbled as she got to her feet, relying on the blocks of her cell to stand. Her feet shook from effort, her body going back and forth like an ocean wave. Weak. Body faltering under the demands of an unstable brain, the body it controlled mirroring every little crack and missing piece. She almost felt thankful when the bars came unlocked, the guard reaching in to grab her wrist. He undid the chain that bound her to the cell wall. Cerise fell against him, the energy seeping out of her like blood; the guard let out a curse, calling her a name that almost hurt, and grabbed under her exposed armpit, pulling her to her feet. He dragged her out of the cell and into the dimly-lit corridor. Past the other cells where other prisoners had already withered away and gone mad; they jeered at the guard and gave broken looks at Cerise that spoke a thousand words. Up the spiraling staircase where the mixed odor of urine, feces, and decay weakened until it was entirely gone, leaving Cerise to breathe clean air for the first time in a long while.

She couldn’t bask in the beauty of what was once her home, not like was possible when there was no real danger. She clenched her eyes shut to avoid the memories, the hopes, and the dreams, letting her tall, faceless guard support her all the way to the half-destroyed mead hall.

_Everything is damned,_ came a thought. It was a true thought, perhaps the only truth she knew. She shuddered against the weight of it, as she did the weight of her guard, feeling a harsh shove bring her to her knees. She toppled over herself, falling into a bowed position without truly realizing it. She heard new jeers, not much like the prisoners; these jeers targeted her. Whoever was here with her laughed and called taunts, branding her the “Weeping Orphan.” She wasn’t the last of a dynasty, but she was the last of a family—a family of legends. A family that was no more.

Because of them.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Cerise screamed as loud as she could muster, coming up not very loud, not much of a scream at all, and her eyes popped open. She weakly peered around, moving her head every direction to catch every face that dared mock her. There were only men, all their wives indoors to avoid the harsh prices that were paid in war. Obviously no one pitied her much, if they were there to pay tribute to heinous crimes rather than repent for killing fathers, mothers, _children._ She didn’t want to be mocked for something so atrocious—not by the very monsters that took from her what she cherished most. She did not want to face any of them. She wanted her horrible, no-good guard to take her back to where she came from, the very cell that was the only home she had now. The home she’d stay in until she died of grief.

Footsteps echoed in the mead-hall, coming down from the stairs that led to the table where the Lord and his family feasted.

Then they stopped.

“Hold your tongue,” snarked a deep, hollow voice from in front of Cerise. Through glazed eyes she turned her head, meeting the menacing glower of her uncle. _You…_ she thought, feeling her teeth gnash against each other, harsh enough that they grinded. A new swell of tears rose, offset by the anger and wrath that stewed deep in her belly. The man crouched down beside her, the metal on his armor jingling like keys, and met her eyes. Those eyes—they looked just like hers, just like her father’s. Browns and greens that swirled to make hazel, matching the color palette of a forest. “You should know better by now, Cerise. I am not a man to be trifled with.”

“We did _nothing_ to you,” Cerise spat. She let out a gasp when the guard behind her grabbed her by the hair, yanking her into his armor-clad knees. They wore armor like they just came victorious from battle, like they just came from their coup two moon cycles ago—a joke, a big joke that Cerise didn’t find very funny. She let the tears of pain that spiked spill. “You… we thought you were dead. Father was happy to see you home. And you—you put a _knife_ through his throat, like some kinslayer.”

“It was my birthright to be Lord,” Erik Meriden said coldly to her. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest at being identified as a kinslayer; Cerise, with dawning horror, saw just how _smug_ he was. “Just as it was your birthright to be wed off to some thirdborn.”

Cerise glowered at her uncle. She wanted to say all she could in the limited time she had, but being cruel would only get her so far. Satisfying the part of her that ached for vengeance against Erik was not a part that would enjoy the punishments he had in wait for her slip-ups. He let her waste in that cell for so long to make the anger fester, and fester it did, just like the maggots did in the long-salted wounds of her family’s corpses. She would have gladly faced death if it meant a knife to Erik’s throat. But even a broken shamble of bones like her could see what was pointless when it looked her dead in the eye.

“Why have you summoned me?” she asked in defeat.

Her uncle’s grim face sharpened at the edges, crafting into a sinister smile. “There are men who would pay a great price for the last descendant of Ulric Meriden,” he told her. “Tywin Lannister most of all.”

The blood in Cerise’s body frozen, solidifying into glucose. “What?”

“As I am the new Lord of Oakenpond Hill, Tywin Lannister has no reason to fear me. Ulric was a traitor and a threat to the crown. As I’ve eliminated an ally of the pretender Robb Stark, Tywin is in the right mind to align with me,” Erik said, watching the color drain from Cerise’s face. She wasn’t ignorant enough to question his intentions, knowing the type of man her uncle was after years spent imprisoned. “He knows of your survival. He’d like to pay for your presence in Harrenhal.”

“He has no _use_ of me,” Cerise said. As much as she hated Erik she would rather die under his detestable, victory-laden gaze than meet Tywin Lannister, one of the most formidable men in Westeros. He would make sure to break her before he killed her for being blood-bound to a proclaimed traitor’s cause. Secretly she indeed had her father’s heart, rooting against King Joffrey and those who had ties to the Lannisters, but she would not tell that to her uncle or his followers. She would not tell it to anyone who had reason to kill her; it would be an easy sentence. Only when death sounded like release did she even dare consider doing it, but even then she hated to think what her sentence would be. It would not be painless, that was known. “Why—why would he need me?”

“I just told you,” Erik said in a slow, patronizing tone. He had, but only vaguely. Cerise wanted to know the consequences of being her father’s daughter. She knew why Tywin had qualms with her survival but knowing what he would do in response was an unsolved inquiry.

Cerise eyed the mead hall, unintentionally meeting the hungry gazes of men who aided her uncle in the takeover of her home. Men who now called her uncle Lord and would cheer on the Lannisters in the War of the Five Kings, maybe even offer their swords. They were all traitors in her mind. Some of them even called this place home before Erik came and put an end to her father and everything he built. Erik was the true pretender, not Robb Stark. He paraded around in armor befitting of a Lord, ate from her father’s chair, danced to the tune of his victory—all like a boy-king would before his inevitable ruin. Cerise knew to which tune he danced, and it wasn’t a pretty one. All men like him met their ends, even if it took years, even if took decades.

She looked back at her uncle, who watched her closely. He did not trust her, and he was right not to. She was weak and hunger-panged and an obvious runt, but she was once much more than that. She was worn down from the trials and tribulations of war—one of the many victims of it.

“He offered 20,000 Gold Dragons to see you returned in one piece to him,” Erik said. _That_ answered why he would release her so easily; he was only just a man, and men were greedy. “It was an offer I couldn’t refuse in good conscience.”

Cerise’s eyes narrowed. “Won’t you only spend it back funding this war?” she asked. He already spent all her lord father’s savings. That’s what made him need the money. Yet, there was a war going on and Erik would be required to aid the Lannisters at some point; the Lannisters would get their due. She regretted opening her mouth if this was the game her enemies were playing and she gave Erik reason to self-preserve. She _wanted_ him to fail. She didn’t want to see him thrive, not while he was a kinslayer.

Erik dismissively said, “It is no burden of yours to bear. Tywin and his company will see to that fittingly.” He got up from his crouch, giving Cerise a final smile. It was a farewell smile, a condescending smile, the smile of a man who thought he won the game. “You will be leaving for Harrenhal in the morning. Three of my guards will accompany you.”

“Will I be prettied for the Queen’s father?” Cerise said sarcastically, unable to bite her tongue. She felt tingles across her skin when the guard holding her hair pulled her back some more and struck her cheek. Erik had a wane look of satisfaction when she turned frontward to meet his gaze. _Yes,_ his eyes said as they danced.

If this were the last time she saw his face, she didn’t want it to be with a smile.

She leaned forward, ignoring the tug on her scalp that plucked strands of dark hair away from it, and hissed, “Mark my words, Uncle; leaving me alive will be the worst possible decision you ever make as Lord. I’ll find my way back here and when I do, only one of us will walk away with their heart beating.”

Silence ignited the hall in the following seconds after her words, but only for a fleeting moment.

Erik laughed loudly. “Then it is a good thing Tywin is not a merciful man,” he said, a promise in his tone.

The mead hall erupted in laughter, too, finding the orphaned girl’s own promise comical. A girl no more than eight stones saying she would survive Tywin’s wrath and return to sate her own? It was a laughing matter, and Cerise wanted to scream until their ears bled as they mocked her one final time. Even if she truly did get her retribution some day she would never forget the way they dragged her name through the mud—and cried tears of laughter as they did it.

Cerise did not scream. Instead she stayed silent as she was dragged from the room again, back the way she came, her legs now functional but her mind undertaking a new battle. She let the guard holding her call her vulgar names and dig his glove-covered fingers into her arm and be ruthless when he chained her back up against the wall. He pushed her face into the hay and told her she wouldn’t last a day in Lannister territory. He, too, called her a weeping orphan.

He left her to weep at her fate and curse the Gods for ruining her everything all at the age of seven-and-ten.

But Cerise had no more room for tears.

* * *

ROBB

**ROBB STARK STOOD** in the middle of his war tent, bent over a table haphazardly decorated with maps and metal figures, candles the only source of light in the darkness. His arms were spread eagle, his face concentrated deeply on the map he had in front of him. It was like all the rest, tattered like the pages of an old book. He was so absorbed in his lonely thoughts that he did not notice when someone entered the tent also until the man was beside him, holding a letter that just came from a raven.

“Here you are, Your Grace. This only arrived moments ago,” the messenger said, holding out the frail parchment to his King. “The raven was a Meriden one.”

Robb grew alert, looking at the messenger, his eyes asking if his word was to be taken for a jest. He had called for his bannerman months ago when his father had been taken captive by the Lannisters, yet House Meriden never responded to the call. He grew worried and had asked his mother, Catelyn Stark, if he needed to pursue their snubbing as an act of treason. His mother had recommended he not take it personally and turn to what was important—though Robb thought oppositely. Lord Meriden was a sophisticated, seasoned, _and_ daunting warrior. Having him fight your war was equal to fifteen or so men on their own. Robb had let the subject drop and focused more on the bannermen who did respond.

Having a raven arrive so late into the war, when they were already camped and plotting blows to Tywin Lannister’s army, was unusual. Robb felt suspicion arise in him.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the rolled-up parchment out of the messenger’s hand. The messenger bowed, mumbling a request to take leave; Robb gave another nod, barely paying any mind to the man as he harried out of the tent. Perfectly alone, Robb unfurled the parchment:

_To Robb Stark,_

_At any costs do not trust or associate with House Meriden. Lord Meriden has been killed by his brother, Erik, and all of his living children but one have died by his hand. Hallie was vanquished too. On the day of Lady Ceridwen Meriden’s name-day Erik Meriden showed bearing gifts with a group of men he claimed to have befriended on his travels around Westeros after escaping Casterly Rock. Lord Meriden mistakenly trusted his brother and on the cutting of the cake Erik Meriden staged a coup, killing every member of the Meriden family but Ceridwen. I am one of the few townsfolk left alive in Oakenpool Hill. I urge you, King Stark, do not take Erik for a friend; he is as foe as they come. He has made an alliance the Lannisters; many of his guards are officers from Tywin Lannister’s army. I have heard from his guards that they plan to sell off the imprisoned Ceridwen to Tywin Lannister in Harrenhal for a great sum of Gold Dragons._

_Ceridwen is a girl of seven-and-ten and undeserving of the fate she’s been given. I know she is of no importance to you but if you ever get the opportunity, I would beg you as someone who loved her family with all his heart that you take her in and protect her. Once she is in Tywin’s hands there is no saving her; he will kill her for her connection to Ulric Meriden._

There was no name, or even a word of departure. It was left anonymous.

Robb’s eyes grew wider, his body more alarmed, the longer he read. The truth came to him rapidly, though some of it was more assumption than hard fact. Lord Meriden was not committing treason or ignoring Robb’s pleas to help him defeat the Lannisters; he had been killed in his own home, the town of Oakenpond Hill taken by his treacherous brother. Erik Meriden was a legend of his own for being a Targaryen spy during the Mad King’s reign; he’d been imprisoned for years, presumably killed by the Lannisters in Casterly Rock for his crimes against Robert Baratheon.

He felt terrible for the fates that befell these good people, especially Ceridwen Meriden. She was a girl just a year Robb’s junior. He knew her from his childhood when his father took him to visit the Meridens in their family home after their son Merrick’s tragic disappearance. Cerise was a shy, inquisitive girl who liked playing with wooden swords, nothing like her older, solemn-faced siblings. Robb grieved for her, as a man who knew what it was like to lose a father and as a boy who knew the smiles of an innocent little girl innocent no longer.

Robb heard the flap of his tent open again, this time accompanied by light feet. He heard his mother before he had to look and see her: “Robb, I heard you were still here. Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“The Meridens are dead,” Robb said, ignoring his mother’s concern. He turned to look at her. Catelyn had heard what he said, her mouth falling open in shock and a hand coming up to cover it. “I just received a raven from a man who still resides there.”

Catelyn looked distressed. She had known Hallie as a good friend, just as she did Ulric; this was almost as painful as losing Eddard, Robb’s father. Robb could see that by the unshed tears in her eyes.

“That’s awful,” Catelyn said. Her face twisted in something almost hopeful, her eyes gleaming through her tears. “ _All_ of them?”

Robb hesitated, and Catelyn’s face dropped, expecting the worst. “Lord Meriden’s brother staged a coup,” he explained to her. “He, his wife, and five of his children were killed in the fray. His daughter Ceridwen survived but is being held prisoner by the new Lord, Erik.”

If it were even possible, Catelyn’s face fell further. “Cerise?” she cried. “Robb, we must do something—what if he—”

“The letter said she’s being transported into the custody of Tywin Lannister,” Robb said disdainfully. “There’s nothing we can do but win the war for her and her family, Mother. She’s good as dead once she’s in the hands of that bastard.”

Catelyn collapsed into the nearest chair, weeping softly. Robb felt himself on the brink of collapse, hating that he could do nothing to save an innocent girl from her fate. He knew what horrors Tywin Lannister was capable of, many of them unspeakable, and a girl he knew as a child was not someone he wanted to imagine facing them. She was innocent and newly orphaned, a child in a game that was meant for adults. The same could be said for Robb, who was just a boy of eight-and-ten, but he had known his duties as heir of Winterfell from birth. This girl, Ceridwen, was Lord Meriden’s seventh-born; she hadn’t ever needed to grow up early. She was like Sansa, and that made Robb even more angry that he could do nothing.

Robb felt for her, he did, but saving her was at the cost of risking his advantage in the North’s war against the Lannisters.

He couldn’t compromise that.

* * *

CERISE

**THE LOUD SLAM OF THE UPSTAIRS DOOR** stirred Cerise abruptly. She let out a moan of pain from the aches she still suffered at her scalp and on her face, and she tried burrowing into her shield of greasy, tangled hair. It was all for naught when armor clanged against the cell bars again.

Cerise used the wall to work her way up into a sitting position. Every part of her was stiff and in pain, either from the sleepless night she just had or the upheaval of everything she thought about her fate last evening.

She turned and faced the guard that came to awaken her, wondering what it was this time. Until, at an alarming rate, she remembered yesterday. Her uncle’s words. _Everything._

“Rise and shine, my Lady,” the guard outside her cell sneered. He tapped his knuckle against the bars. “Harrenhal awaits.”

* * *

_Author's Note: Oh hey, I'm back with a new story. I have so many but what's one more? I'm a huge Game of Thrones buff but have lost my love for it bc of that clusterfuck of a season 8. Now I look to fanfiction to ease my hatred for D &D. Hopefully I can give a nice little addition to the party!!!! This is an AU so ofc there will be a diversion from canon, woohoo. Hopefully y'all like my OC and if not… oof sorry :( this will also be my first book with an attempt at smut so WHOOP _


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